


Hair

by mischief5



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-30
Updated: 2010-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischief5/pseuds/mischief5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anger coiled in his hands; that hair had no business just lying there, sad and neglected. It should be standing up, spiky and impudent, telling two galaxies to go fuck themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Sheafrotherdon's Skin Hunger Challenge.

That hair, that god-awful hair that grew like a mutant muskrat and looked like John hacked at it with kitchen shears or maybe a bushhog, lay flat and greasy and ill against the bones of John's skull, forgotten in the three day nightmare of piecing a man's fragile body back together again.

They'd shoved tubes through his skin, in his chest, through his ribs, down his throat, while Rodney paced, hands in anxious flight, spewing venom at Keller and her evil minions for not working faster, better, harder until even Teyla retreated, wide-eyed, to the silent safety of Ronon's exhausted rage. Carter, who'd never seen Rodney quite like this, and Lorne, who had, did the one thing they could: they blocked his path into the OR so that Keller could do her job.

Now, seventy-eight hours later, John was off the respirator, b/p a bit low but holding steady, and the grey sheen of death was gone from his skin. Rodney had slept and eaten, forced to it not by Keller or Carter but by Ronon, manhandling him. Staring down at John, Rodney took in the pale skin, bloodless lips, and the flat, dead hair. Anger coiled in his hands; that hair had no business just lying there, sad and neglected. It should be standing up, spiky and impudent, telling two galaxies to go fuck themselves.

With a sly sense of stealth he'd learned from watching John, Rodney quietly gathered what he needed and filled a plastic basin with warm water. One of the nurses would be back in fifteen minutes or so, but by then he'd be done, or nearly, and they could yell at him then. His big hands didn't shake as he soaked the cloth and wrung it mostly out, running it over John's head, working loose the dried blood near his left ear. The shampoo was next -- not too much –- the way they'd taught him before his mother died. Then rinse with a fresh cloth and dry. He ran his fingers carefully through the thick, black mess and there it was, that fuck-you hair, right where it belonged.

Rodney felt something loosen in his chest and sighed, only to find his fingers caught in the fragile trap of a callused hand. John Sheppard unclosed his eyes, hazy with drugs and something else Rodney McKay had never before seen in him or anyone else.

"Don' stop."

Breath caught in his chest, Rodney drew his thumb over John's. "Keller…"

"No. Don' stop."

And so Rodney dipped the cloth into the water again and traced the planes and hollows of John's face, bringing the blood gently back to the surface. He worked around the sutures above John's left ear, cleaned the line of dried blood from behind it, dipping and rinsing one-handed. John watched him, eyes clouded, drifting in and out. He began humming, soft and tuneless, the purr of a contented cat. Neither one noticed when Rodney joined him, in perfect counterpoint.

Keller slipped away to finish writing up her reports.

 

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End file.
